


Black Sheep, White Wolf

by AwkwardFortuna



Series: Wolves & Wargs & Witchers [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Actually all the Stark kids are supposed to be able to warg in the books, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Gen, Geralt is a weird horse girl, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Grief/Mourning, I'm getting creative w/the White walkers here, Jon Snow is canononically a Warg, Jon is a weird wolf boy, M/M, One Shot, Pre-Battle of Winterfell | Final Battle Against the White Walkers, Slightly an AU, Slow Romance, Supernatural Elements, The Night's Watch (ASoIaF), White Walkers, but i digress, its a match made in heaven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23037355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardFortuna/pseuds/AwkwardFortuna
Summary: Jon Snow goes looking for a Witcher.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jon Snow, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jon Snow, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Renfri | Shrike, Jon Snow/Ygritte, Slight Jon Snow/Geralt z Rivii
Series: Wolves & Wargs & Witchers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784206
Comments: 49
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The general timeline for this fic is sometime after Geralt's encounter with Renfri but before his introduction to Jaskier. 
> 
> Jon Snow's timeline is sometime after Ygritte's death with an earlier encounter of the White Walkers. 
> 
> Side Note:  
> I've only ever watched The Witcher tv series on Netflix, and my Game of Thrones knowledge is somewhat lacking since I gave up on the show a few seasons back (I also read the books but that was years ago! I was like 15 lol) So I've taken liberty with the timeline and events of the series to try and make things fit better! 
> 
> I hope you readers can enjoy it!

Geralt does his best to stay out of politics and far away from kingdoms so when the black cloak walks into the tavern he retreats further into the shadows, hoping that fate would be so kind as to keep their paths from crossing.

It has been three months since Blaviken. Three months since he's had stable work and a full belly. Three months since his sleep has gone uninterrupted. Ever since that fateful day, he's been haunted by the memory of Renfri; the smell of her, the sting of her blade and the way she felt lighter as she died in the crook of his arm. He's kept to himself since then, walking hand-in-hand with isolation as if it were an old friend.

With the form of Renfri still lingering in his mind and the " _Butcher of Blaviken"_ moniker faithfully following him everywhere he goes, Geralt's decided that he has had enough of trouble to last him for the rest of his painfully long lifetime.

There is no doubt in Geralt's mind that the black cloak from the North Wall brings trouble in his wake, and for a member of the Night's Watch to be so far south of the wall? Geralt figures that there is desperation to be found there too.

Ignoring the glances cast his way and the whispers of townsfolk, he settles into a seat near the back of the tavern and drowns his sorrows in a warm pint of mead. When he had first stopped at the tavern, he had done so in hopes of finding work but just as the last few towns over, there was no word of monster or witch for him to slay.

There were no beasts to come by other than beasts of land and of those beasts most belonged to farms that belonged to neighboring kingdoms. To hunt in these woods would mean angering the local enforcers and if there was one thing Geralt couldn't stand it was a snot-nosed knight telling him what to do.

So, with his belly empty and his pockets in a similar fate, Geralt settles in, for the time being, savoring the bitter taste of his mead and keeping his ears open for any possible _hint_ of a beast nearby.

But of all the whisperings he hears, none of them have to do with monsters or witches of legend. Instead, the townsfolk gossip amongst each other about the ‘ _black cloak,’_ and the ‘ _yellow-eyed freak.'_ He's pretty sure he even hears a ' _Butcher of Blaviken'_ tossed into the mix and with a disappointed sigh, he concludes that this town like all the rest will be another fruitless endeavor, something his stomach growls angrily at.

“May I sit?” a man asks, interrupting his thoughts.

Geralt turns to him and is surprised by the youthfulness of the watchman's face, the stark contrast of pale skin and black hair, longer than is usual for a man of his field. It falls in loose curls across his face, somewhat similar to Renfri's and how she wore it. For a moment, Geralt thinks that he sees her standing in the shadows of the tavern, but it is merely a trick of the eye.

“Look elsewhere,” he grunts, tipping his head back and downing the rest of his cup all in one go. 

He can feel the townsfolks' eyes on him, inspecting him, accusing him. He can hear them calling him _‘butcher’_ and _‘bastard,’_ and thinks he hears Renfri's voice too, whispering his fate into the shell of his ear.

“You seem to be the only other outcast here," the young man says, unperturbed. "I figured I’d have better luck sitting here with you than with a Southerner.”

The watchman sits down across from him, this time not waiting for a response from Geralt. He glares at the boy and sets his mug down harshly against the table. A few patrons jump at the resounding _clank_ but the boy does not flinch, brown doe eyes staring into Geralt’s as though daring him to go _further._

“You are mistaken,” Geralt grits out, hackles rising. He can feel the tavern-goers closing in on him as if the room is growing smaller by the minute.

If fate would be so kind, she would strike now and remove the watchman from his presence _(as she should have done with Renfri,)_ but fate has never been kind to him for more than a day in the entirety of his life, and so the boy stays, a nervous look upon his face as he leans towards Geralt.

"I'm not looking for trouble," he sighs, his voice husky and tired, perhaps from his long trek south in the cold. "I'm looking for a Witcher."

“You’re out of luck, Witchers and trouble go hand in hand,” Geralt grunts before standing and leaving the table and thus the watchman behind. He shoulders past a group of patrons, ignoring their remarks and the boy calling after him.

Geralt turns his thoughts towards the next town over. He hopes that it will have better offers and he hopes that Roach will be able to make it there on such small amounts of food.

He's just about to leave the establishment fully when the boy appears at his side, grabbing him by the arm in an attempt to pull him back inside.

"Please, I have coin! Name your price and I'll match it!"

 _'Well, there's the desperation,'_ Geralt thinks, ' _now to keep watch for trouble.'_

He wrestles his arm out of the man's grasp and shoves him back a step.

"You should have opened with that," Geralt states, inclining his head towards the money pouch tied to the belt loop of the watchman's trousers.

"I- I wasn't sure you were _you_ at first. When I heard word of a witcher in the area, I didn't know what to expect, never having seen one of your kind before."

 _"_ We're few and far between," Geralt says with a nod, before motioning for the watchman to follow him out of the tavern and far away from prying eyes.

Not many would dare to rob a witcher, let alone a watchman, but the discussion of coin in a room full of drunks harboring resentment was a foolish and naive move to make for anyone.

Geralt leads him to the stables out back where Roach chortles in excitement as he approaches. _'We've got a job, girl,'_ he thinks, briefly pressing his forehead against Roach's.

"You have a beautiful horse," the watchman says.

He reaches out as if to pet her before thinking better of it and letting his hands drop to his sides. Geralt spies a glint of silver there, far too bright to be any old steel blade of the Night Watch's armory. Valyrian, most like.

"What beast has frightened you so, that you've had to come to a witcher for help?"

"A beast so old that no maester or priest knows of it. A beast made of ice, with the face of a man."

Geralt frowns. The boy continues.

"A beast that raises armies of the dead. A beast that holds no court or council. A beast that is preparing for eternal winter, a beast that wants to rule the North."

"Sounds like every King I've ever come across," Geralt scoffs.

"Please, listen. We call them White Walkers and they're preparing for a battle that no one else believes is happening."

_Ah, there it is, the trouble underfoot._

"I don't participate in battles, I don't take sides," Geralt says in a huff, rolling his eyes.

He thought the Night's Watch were neutral, choosing to stay on the sidelines of wars and politics. Perhaps entertaining this man's proposal was a mistake.

"I'm not asking that of you."

"Then what _are_ you asking of me?"

Geralt reaches for Roach's saddle but the watchman beats him to it, grasping it in his hands and holding it just out of arms reach.

"Come North with me, see the walkers for yourself," he says, holding the saddle hostage.

"Excuse me?"  
  
"I'll pay for your food and lodging on the way. When we reach the North Wall, I'll pay double your going rate."

Well. That's more than Geralt was expecting.

"Give me back my saddle," Geralt growls walking toward him.

"Do we have a deal?" the watchman asks, matching each step Geralt makes with his own parry.

Geralt's stomach rumbles with want for food, his pint of mead from earlier somehow makes the hunger pangs worse as his stomach clenches against nothing. Roach bumps her head against Geralt, chuffing softly at him.

"... _Yes,"_ Geralt hisses. "I suppose we do."


	2. Chapter 2

_He wakes up to a woman in his camp. Or at least, the shadow of one. Geralt can hear her laughing, hear her sigh and pant with breath as she darts between the trees, leading Geralt away from Roach and his uncomfortable but warm makeshift bed of leaves and twigs. He follows her down a ravine, he follows her across a lake, he’s so entranced with the form of her that he doesn’t notice the forest as it changes around him until the moment she stops in the middle of what is now a frozen clearing._

_It is then that Geralt notices the frozen river, the iced-over plants and the trees once full of life now stand dead and barren. His feet sink down into the snow as he approaches the woman, laying a hand on her shoulder and turning her ‘round to face him. He’s not surprised to find that it's Renfri, it’s always Renfri._

_“Ren, what-“_

_She shushes him by placing a cold finger to his lips before lifting herself up onto her toes and whispering into the cradle of his ear._

_“You’re losing your way Geralt. The girl in the woods can only wait for so long.”_

_He wants to say ‘you are the girl in the woods.’ He wants to say ‘you’re dead, you’re dead, you’re dead.’ He wants to say that fate has no hold on him. He wants to say so much to her that his heart aches from the pain of it except this is a dream that he knows well. The same dream he’s had every night since Blaviken and he knows that there is nothing he can do or say that will change the outcome of its ending._

_“The girl in the woods, find her. She is your destiny.”_

_Geralt closes his eyes and relishes the feel of her pressed against him. He knows that when she pulls back from him she will be covered in blood, like all his dreams before.  
_

_“You’re going someplace far Geralt, someplace I can’t follow.”_

_Renfri collapses against him and Geralt rests his head against the crook of her shoulder before crouching down with her in his arms. He can feel her shudder against him. He can feel the warmth as it leaves her body._

_“Geralt, Geralt. Open your eyes,” she whispers._

_He shakes his head. In his dreams the blood is too much, it’s always too much._

_“Geralt,” she calls again. “Geralt.”_

_He hears a sword being drawn, he hears it squelch as it pierces through a warm and wet body._

_"Geralt, Geralt of Rivia. Open your eyes."_

"Geralt!"

Geralt wakes with a jolt, the annoying black cloak is standing over him, a worried look written plainly across his face. He pushes him away before sitting up in his cot. It takes a moment for him to remember the watchman and the deal that they made and a moment longer to remember where he is; the _Sleeping Siren_ Inn, in the middle of a tiny hole-in-the-wall town. Geralt had taken the man's coin and they had headed North until exhaustion had got the better of them.

"What are you doing in my room?"

"My rooms' across from yours. I could hear you screaming from it and thought it best to check up on you. Are you okay?"  
  
Geralt grunts and falls back against his straw pillows. For the price that they paid, you'd think they would have been given actual _goose feather_ pillows, not straw ones.

The watchman takes a seat on a stool across from Geralt. He's dressed already, his fine sword attached to his tapered hip and his black fur cloak slung across his shoulders. He's a nice-looking fellow, with big brown eyes that are a touch too sad to look into so Geralt focuses on the man's sword and the wolf head hilt, instead.

"Who's Renfri?" the watchman asks because apparently he can't leave well enough alone.

"What time is it?" Geralt deflects, ignoring the watchman in favor of lifting the curtain of his bedside window. It's dark outside still, but Geralt can see an inkling of light beginning to emerge on the horizon.

"The roosters have yet to crow," he says with a shrug. "I figured it would be best to get an early start if we want to make it to the North Wall by this time in a fortnight"  
  
Geralt grunts in response. It's been quite some time since he's had to rise early and stick to a schedule. Quite some time indeed.

"The name's Jon, by the way. Jon Snow...Not that you've asked."  
  
"You're right, I haven't."

The watchman, _Jon,_ leaves his room without so much as a look back. Geralt sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, the smell of winter and blood, and Renfri still linger in his mind.

* * *

He finds Jon Snow in the Inn's tavern, seated at an empty bar and heavily discussing something with a robust woman whom Geralt figures as the barmaid.

"When my son said that a Witcher and a Black Cloak checked in last night, I couldn't believe my luck!" she laughs, clasping her hands together. "I thought this town was on the brink of extinction! And now here you two are!"

Jon turns to Geralt, a look of surprise on his face.

"Geralt! Tiffany says there is a monster in the woods."

"What kind of monster?" he asks, sitting down next to Jon and eyeing the mug that sits in front of him.

The barmaid, _Tiffany,_ grabs a mug of ale for Geralt too.

"I don't know exactly what. It came six nights ago and made its home in our most bountiful river. We're a fishing village you see, and that thing is killing anyone that gets near the water! If it doesn't leave soon we won't have enough fish to last us through the winter. We'll starve to death and come summer, we'll have no fish to trade with."

"Have you any coin?" Geralt asks, already putting together a mental list of beasts capable of fitting Tiffany's description. Most likely it's a Kikimora, nasty things they are. Capable of wiping out entire ecosystems in a single month.

"I-I have no coin. I have nothing to offer you but ale!" Tiffany cries, suddenly bursting into tears.

Geralt stares at her wide-eyed and Jon shoots him a look before leaning over the counter and patting her on her shoulders.

"There, there, Tiffany. This ale is more than enough and we will gladly accept this task of defeating the beast."

Geralt's just about to ask Jon who the hell this ' _we'_ is when Tiffany reaches over the counter and engulfs the both of them into a hug.

"Oh thank you so much! I knew you both would be angels I just knew it!"

Geralt shifts uncomfortably against her before spying the Ale tap. He reaches his mug behind Tiffany and fills his cup.

Jon gives him a stern look behind Tiffany's back and Geralt, still engulfed in the hug with him, does his best to shrug.

 _'It's free,'_ Geralt mouths at him.

Jon rolls his eyes and Tiffany, finally, lets them go. With a sigh Geralt chugs his ale.

This will be a very long trek indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

"We're going to help her, right?" Jon asks, catching up to Geralt as he stomps out of the tavern and into the cold and dreary stables.

Roach neighs happily at his arrival and for a moment Jon swears that Geralt _smiles_ at the beast, but his grin is gone faster than Jon's eyes can blink and when Geralt turns to look at him, he does so with his signature scowl back in place.

"Yes, seeing as you've already accepted the job on my behalf. And it's _I_ by the way." Geralt grunts, readying Roach for their mission by filling her saddle pockets with weapons, potions, and the like.

Spying the confused look on the watchman's face, Geralt further clarifies " _I'm_ going to help her. _Me_ , not you."

"But I _can_ help."  
  
"I don't care, you'll just get in the way."  
  
"I'm a member of the Night's Watch. I'm not some ordinary civilian," Jon snaps, motioning at his valyrian sword.

Geralt ignores him in favor of mounting Roach. He leans over to whisper a few words of encouragement into her ears before gathering her reigns in one hand and trotting out of the stables on horseback.

"As a member of the Night's Watch, it is my sworn duty to defend the realm," Jon says, keeping up with them in quick and hurried steps.

"I don't _care,_ " Geralt sighs before flicking Roach's reigns once, then twice, turning her slow and steady trot into a sudden and fast-paced gallop.

The pair disappear into the tree line marking the edge of town, leaving Jon behind in the dust. Geralt can hear the watchman calling after him but his voice is quickly muffled by the thicket of the trees.

* * *

Geralt finds the main river body three miles out of town.

The water's surface is surprisingly calm but long since blackened from the Kikimora's influence. The entire river smells of rotting fish, death and sulfur. It makes Geralt's eyes sting as he walks down to the embankment, having left Roach tied a safe distance away.

He attempts not to retch as he heads into the river with his sword strapped tightly to his back. With each step he takes, he unearths a new wave of rot. His skin goose-pimples as the cold water laps against him, his feet stumble against the muddied shole before the ground gives way to a shallow drop. He swims to the middle of the river until finally, he manages to balance atop a sunken boulder. 

For a moment, there is nothing but silence. Geralt scans the horizon and sees the calm face of the water staring back at him. He hears the wind, he hears his heartbeat, he even hears the soft sounds of Roach munching away at foliage. He’s just about to trudge deeper into the river in search of the oddly silent Kikimora when the boulder he’s standing on suddenly _moves_ and lets out a blood-curdling _scream._

The Kikimora rears its ugly head and for a moment, Geralt thinks he's seeing double before jumping into action and slicing at the tentacles nearest him. The Kikimora roars at him before splitting into two because, as it turns out, he was _right._ The river is home to not one, but _two_ Kikimora creatures and as Geralt dances between them with his sword at the ready and cursing himself for lack of foresight, Geralt realizes that this fishing village’s river is not just a home for two beasts _-because no, nothing is ever that easy,-_ it’s a goddamned nest. 

_‘Of course, it is,’_ Geralt thinks bitterly, bringing his sword down across a particularly nasty tentacle reaching out for him, _‘fate would never be so kind.’_

The larger Kikimora, the female, lets out a hideous and foul-smelling roar that makes Geralt’s eyes burn from the stench. He’s thrown back into the water by it. Mud and filth dirty his vision. He swims up, or at least toward what he _thinks_ is up before he is quickly pinned down by the male Kikimora’s barbed tentacle.

It cuts into his skin, latching onto him like a lamprey would and suddenly he’s pulled up and out of the filthy waters before getting slammed hard against the shole. 

His head spins, his lungs burn from lack of oxygen and there’s nothing but dirt and swamp before his eyes. His sword, lost somewhere amongst the muddy floor is useless to him now, so Geralt grabs at the tentacle and quickly signs an _Aard_ sigil. The tentacles rip off of him, taking a few inches of skin with it.

Geralt rises from the lake and quickly regains his footing, shuffling about in hopes of unearthing his sword. 

The female Kikimora lifts herself out of the water completely, revealing hundreds of egg groupings glued to its underbelly by a yellow viscous fluid. The eggs shudder and twitch with the living larvae inside before splitting open and _hatching._

“Fuck.”

Geralt dives into the water just as the newly hatched offspring begin to emerge. He swims wildly and blindly towards the shore when finally he spies the glint of his blade, buried beneath a bed of moss. He’s mere inches from it, his fingertips graze the leather of its handle when a barbed tentacle wraps around his ankle and tugs him back into the fray. 

The male Kikimora brings him out of the water, hanging from his ankles.

As Geralt looks down the mouth of the father Kikimore, he sees nothing but rows and rows of teeth continuing down past its throat, marking what Geralt imagines to be a very painful pathway down to its belly. He's just about to sign another Aard and take his chances with the 8-foot drop when something black catches his eye.

* * *

The night's watchman appears, swinging his valyrian blade down in an arch across the arm that holds Geralt's ankles, sending the Witcher hurtling down below.

The beast roars at the black cloak, and Geralt is surprised to find that the younger man is holding his own against the two beasts, wielding his blade as though it were an extension of his body, bobbing and weaving between tentacles as if it were a dance.

“Are you going to fight, or just sit there gawking?!” Jon calls out, slicing one of the Kikimora offsprings in half as it comes hurtling out of the mother’s sac.

Geralt dives into the river and pulls out his sword, circling back to the father Kikimora, now a limbless maw of teeth and venom. Geralt strikes, slicing his sword clean through the beast's eye and out the back of its head, its body going limp and slipping from his blade down into the river.

He turns back to Jon just in time to see the mother Kikimora as it grabs him by the throat and dangles him over her mouth.

Geralt runs as quickly as he can, cutting away at all of the spawn and stray limbs that hurtle toward him.

"Jon!" Geralt shouts, slicing two of the mini-beasts at once. "Jon! I'm coming!"

Except, there's no way Geralt can make it to the man in time, not without losing a few limbs of his own.

"Jon!" he calls again, panic rising within him as Jon's body goes limp in the Kikimora's grasp.

His valyrian sword falls from limp fingers and down into the filthy waters below.

Geralt readies himself for the carnage, the sound of jaws snapping and tearing into flesh except, strangely, it never comes.

For some reason, the Kikimora _lets go_ and the watchman falls from her grasp and splashes gracelessly into the river below.

"Jon?" Geralt calls out, slicing through the last of the Kikimora's offspring and diving into the waters after him.

The mother Kikamora follows Geralt into the river, her giant eye illuminates the filthy waters, casting a yellow light over the riverbed. For a moment, he thinks he's going to have to send another _aard_ her way but miraculously, it doesn't attack him. It just floats there before him, staring as though hypnotized.

He sees Jon suddenly, lifeless at the bottom of the river, his black locks float like a halo above his head and when he reaches for him, still, the Kikimora does not move.

* * *

  
Geralt manages to drag Jon onto the embankment with little fuss as the she-beast remains frozen, staring at them from her place in the river.

It makes Geralt feel on edge, the abnormality of it. He doesn't want to turn his back to her, but he does so eventually to administer compressions to the unconscious nuisance that _is_ Jon Snow.

Thirty compressions later, the lad spits up river water and bile but still, he does not wake. With a growl of frustration, Geralt shakes the man, attempting to rouse him. He would think him dead if not for the rise and falls of his breath, barely there, but there all the same.

He cradles Jon's face in his palm, wipes the river water from his cheeks and the hair away from where it clings to his face but still, there is no movement. Jon Snow remains frozen, still as a statue just as the Kikamora stands frozen from her place in the river. Geralt glances from Jon, to the beast, then back again.

He nudges one of Jon's eyes open and finds that they have gone from brown to _white._

As Geralt stares into them, he finds the Kikimora staring back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first 'action' scene and I'm not sure if I did it any justice but I hope ya'll can enjoy it! Sorry if it seems rushed at all D:


	4. Chapter 4

_He’s fighting the beast when suddenly his mind goes blank and he is outside of himself looking in, watching as the color drains from his face while the Kikamora grabs him by the throat and constricts. It’s not the first time that this has happened, not the second or third time either. But each time that it happens he wishes and prays to the old gods and the new that it will be the last._

_“You know nothing, Jon.” Ygritte laughs, carding her fingers through his hair. “If you truly think this will be the last time, then you know nothing at all.”_

_He catches her wrists gently and brings them to his lips. He kisses her pulse there, though it no longer beats with life. He kisses the calluses of her hands and the back of her knuckles too. So small and delicate, hiding the strength she holds behind each fist. She packs a powerful punch his Ygritte, in life and death._

_“I know that I love you,” Jon whispers. “I know that I’ll never stop loving you.”_

_Ygritte laughs and there’s blood on her teeth and smoke in the air. Somewhere nearby there must be a fire burning._

_“It’s my funeral pyre,” she says, freeing her hands from Jon’s grip and placing them on either side of his face. “I suppose I should thank you for that. I would hate for my body to rise again, without my being in it.”  
_

_She leans down and kisses him something soft and chaste. Jon deepens their kiss and tastes nothing but ash._

_When he opens his eyes she’s gone, and he smells nothing but fire and burning and blood._

* * *

He comes to in a familiar room, back aching from the strain of the thin straw-stuffed cots of the _Sleeping Siren Inn._ His head feels heavy, weighted down as though it were full of water. 

“Good. You’re awake,” Geralt grunts, helping Jon to sit up and shoving a mug of something hot into his hands. 

Jon takes a meager sip before regretting it immediately and spitting it back into the cup.

“Are you trying to poison me?”

“Drink it.” 

“No,” Jon scoffs, attempting to hand it back to the Witcher who merely steps out of arm's reach. 

“It’s from Tiffany. She’s the town Apothecariast as well. It’s supposed to make you feel better...if I take it back now, I can’t guarantee that she won’t come up here and force it down your throat herself.”

Jon grimaces and looks down at the concoction before attempting to swallow another bitter and revolting sip.

“What happened?” he asks, wrinkling his nose in disgust. 

“How much do you remember?”

Jon frowns in thought, attempting to think through the fog of his addled mind. He remembers the forest, he remembers the river and the foul-smelling water. He remembers Geralt dangling from his ankles and the giant yellow eye of the kikimora beasts. He remembers jumping into the river, sword drawn and-

“Longclaw! Where is it?”

“Your sword? There,” Geralt points to the bedpost where it hangs from its scabbard. Jon lets out a sigh of relief and inspects it, happy to find it as solid and pristine as the day his uncle first gifted it to him.

“Thank you for retrieving it.” 

Geralt looks unsettled, he clears his throat. “What else do you remember, besides your sword?”

“Not much, besides you dangling upside down from the arms of the Kraken beasts.”

“Kikimora. Krakens are much larger,” Gerald corrects. “And I wasn’t _dangling,_ I was planning my next course of action.”

“Right,” Jon scoffs.

“What else do you remember?”

“That’s it. There’s nothing else. I just...I remember the water, how disgusting it was. And I remember...”

“What?”

“I think I was choking?” Jon asks, bringing his fingertips to his throat and hissing at the tenderness there. “Was I choking?”

“Yes, the Kikimora grabbed you by the throat. Best not to touch it for it now,” Geralt chastises. “I’ll ask Tiffany for a salve before we go.” 

“Then what happened?”

“The beast let you go, dropped you right in the middle of the river. I brought you to shore but you were catatonic.”

“Catatonic?!”

“You’ve been asleep for two days.”

“What?!”

“Oh, boysss!” Tiffany sings, interrupting the both of them and walking into the room with a tray of baked goods and salmon-shaped pastries.

“Jon! It’s so good to see you awake! How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m about to vomit” he grunts.

“That’s no good! Did Gerald give you the tea I made? Geralt, give him the tea I made!”

“I did, he said it tastes awful.”

“Medicinal tea usually does dear,” Tiffany sighs before holding the tray out towards Jon. “Here, take some muffins.”

“I’d rather not.” 

Tiffany sighs and forces a pastry into Jon’s hands.

“You’ve had no food for two days, Jon. You need to eat to get better, isn’t that right Geralt?” She asks, dropping a fish-shaped pastry into the palm of Geralt's open hand.

“Sure.”

“See?” She pats Geralt on the shoulder before heading back towards the door.

“Rest up, both of you! The towns’ planning a celebration tonight on account of you twos saving our river!”

“That isn’t necessary-“ 

“I’m afraid we can’t-“

But Tiffany is already out the door, singing to herself loudly to drown them out.

“What’s another day off schedule?” Geralt sighs, taking a vicious bite off of the head of the fish-shaped pastry.

* * *

It is with great reluctance that Jon and Geralt step down into the thrum of the tavern. Tiffany waves at them from her place behind the bar with an incredible grin stretched wide across her face. Villagers clap as they enter the throng, offering their thanks. Some go as far as to reach out for a handshake though Geralt quickly glares them away. Most go after Jon anyhow, thanking him and offering him rounds of ale and meal tickets. Geralt scoffs at their antics before retreating into a safer and more secluded corner of the bar. Tiffany brings him a mug of ale to keep busy, and a plate of fish (freshly caught from the now Kikimora free river) and potatoes as thanks.

"We are eternally grateful, Geralt."

He nods his head with a grunt and Tiffany laughs before patting him on the shoulder. "Something tells me you're not often thanked for the work that you do."

"Most would rather chase me out of town with pitchforks and stones rather than consider giving me thanks, let alone a parting celebration."

"Well," Tiffany sighs, "most people _are_ idiots."  
  
Geralt laughs and tips his mug at her in thanks before drifting into silence. Across the way from Geralt's secluded corner, Jon Snow stands in the middle of the crowd as its center of attention. A woman hangs on his arm, beautiful and fair. Geralt scoffs and takes a swig from his mug

"They've never seen a nobleman before," Tiffany explains. "Most pass through our town and never look back."

"He's noble?"  
  
"You didn't know? He's Ned Stark's bastard, so I guess not technically a _true_ noble. But he's got the blood of the North in him and in trying times like these, that can mean a lot to people."

"In trying times like these?" Geralt asks.

"The Starks are at war with the Queen of Westeros, Jon's brother is leading an army against them as we speak. Honestly, have you been living under a rock, Geralt?"  
  
"I've been trying to."

"Well, I'm glad you've decided to crawl out from it and join us all. Enjoy the rest of your night, Geralt. Thank you, for saving the river."

* * *

Jon slips through the crowd, tired of the constant chatter and praises. Once there was a time when he would've enjoyed the attention, back in his younger days when Catelynn Stark did everything she could to keep him hidden from the public. He had thought then, foolishly, that he could win her acceptance somehow. If only he were braver, smarter, faster, and kinder, then maybe someday she would love him as well. But the fault, he had come to learn, lied not within himself but his parentage, and that was something he could never change.

He finds Geralt seated in the shadows, which is no surprise to him at all. The man has a talent for finding seclusion even in the most populated places.

"Having fun?" he asks, eyeing Jon as he takes a seat next to him.

"Not particularly. It's all a bit stifling, I assume that's why you're seated here?"

Geralt hmms, and takes a sip of his ale. The woman that was hanging off of Jon's arm earlier is eyeing them from the crowd. "I think you have an admirer."

Jon grimaces.

"You should go over to her, watchman. She's quite pretty."

Geralt’s right, she _is_ pretty. Blue-eyed and blonde-haired, something that’s rare this far North. Jon knows that when he looks at her he’s supposed to feel _something,_ but all he feels is cold.

"I'm not interested," he sighs. "Perhaps she'll like you."

Geralt quirks a brow at him and casts a glance towards the girl who quickly turns away with a scowl, “I don’t think her interest extends to me.”

They lapse into silence and Jon thinks that’s it, that Geralt’s fallen back into his seclusion when suddenly he asks him,

”Why didn’t you tell me you were a Warg?” Geralt asks, leaning in close to Jon.

“I’m not,” Jon tries to say it sternly and righteously as if it were the truth, but his voice comes out soft like a whisper.

“You Warged with the Kikimora, you replaced its mind with your own.”

Jon ignores him, choosing instead to stare anywhere but Geralt.

“When I slaughtered the beast you returned to your body. You’re a warg, Jon Snow, whether you like it or not.”  
  


_The pain in his mind is back. He feels it suddenly, as though a blade is stabbing its way into his skull. He remembers gasping awake, on the back of Geralt’s horse. He remembers the smell of the river, he remembers looking down at himself from outside of himself and he remembers dreaming of the river and he remembers dreaming of the snow and he remembers fire. He remembers Arya and Nymeria and Bran’s Summer, Rob’s Greywind and Rickon’s Shaggydog, Sansa's Lady wolf._

_He remembers them all in the forests of Winterfell and he remembers howling._

_'You’re a Warg Jon Snow. You are a half man half beast and if you think differently than you know nothing at all,'_ Ygritte laughs into the shell of his ear and he jumps, quickly looking around for her in the crowded tavern but all that he sees is the girl from earlier, making eyes at him. He turns to Geralt then and tries hard not to falter under his stare.

“I am plenty of things Geralt, I’m the bastard of House Stark, I’m a member of the Night’s Watch, but a _Warg_ I am not.”

“You are,” Geralt sighs.

“I’m _not,”_ he insists, but Ygritte continues to laugh in the shell of his ear and somewhere outside the wind is picking up speed and _howling_. “I’m not,” he says again, more to himself than Geralt.

"I think I'll turn in for the night," he says quietly, rubbing a hand across his brow, trying to soothe its ache.

He attempts to get up from the table but Geralt catches him by the wrist.

"When you dream tonight Jon, will you walk on two legs or four?"

"I'll see you at dawn," He says, jerking free of Geralt's grasp.

He can feel the Witcher's eyes on him as he leaves the bar in favor of his room. The wind continues howling like there a pack of wolves waiting for him just outside the tavern's doors.

If he listens closely, he can hear Ygritte laughing and howling on the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Fire can not kill a dragon' I say to myself, while burning the shit out of my mouth from eating hot cheetohs.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh I'm so sorry for such a late update ya'll D: Like, I can only put off my online classes for so long and they all caught up to me because I'm a horrible procrastinator who puts everything off until the last minute...But ANYWAYS I'll try to update again by this weekend or sometime next week.
> 
> This chapter is a little bit shorter than the others but I hope you guys enjoy it regardless! :)

They are in the middle of a dreary town, twenty miles North of Running Horse, when Geralt first hears word of the white wolf. At first, he thinks it’s about him, town gossip usually is, but when the natives start harping about the wolf eating their chickens and taking off with the sheep, well, Geralt is quick to realize that the beast they are speaking of has nothing to do with him. He has been called a lot of things in his life, but a cattle-stealing chicken eater with four paws is not one of them. 

“You say you’ve seen a white wolf? Where?” Jon asks.

It is the first sentence he has spoken since they have entered this town. Geralt doesn't blame him, the natives here are less than inviting, their faces are bitter. Geralt can feel their eyes following every move that they make. He's not sure if the hostility is aimed more at him than Jon, or vice versa. Perhaps it is simply meant for both of them. Regardless, he has been through enough towns like this, to know that it is best to keep your head down and out of other peoples' business.

“What’s it to you, bastard?” The man sneers. He has a hardened face with missing teeth. He spits on Jon's shoes.

Jon drags the man out of his chair and onto his feet, lightning-quick, with an air of intensity that reminds Geralt of their fight with the Kikimora. The pub goes quiet. Geralt sighs into his mug.

"Tell me where you last saw it." The hilt of his blade shines silver, Jon rests his hand on it, the man pales at the sight.

“I uh-I saw it last i-in the woods, two weeks back. By Olde Peter's farm. It's a beastly creature, with glowing eyes, claws like daggers, the size of a horse-"

"Where is this farm?"

"W-West, just West of town on the outskirts. It's a thirty-minute walk on foot, nearly half that on horseback. I-if you kill the wolf, I hear that there's a bounty for gold."

Jon lets him go with a shove, the man falls back into his seat. 

"Are you coming, Geralt?" 

He sighs deeply and calls the barmaid over. He tosses her a coin. "Give me an ale for the road."

* * *

Olde Peter's Farm is decrepit. The wooden fences stink of rot, the crops are dried and frail. Geralt spies a few animals, wandering freely in browned pastures. It's not well protected, easy pickings for the likes of a wolf.

"Why the sudden interest?" Geralt asks, stepping over a pile of sheeps' dung. "Are you interested in the gold, or the hunting of a wolf?"

"Neither," Jon scoffs. "I'm looking for my friend."

"A friend?" Geralt stops in his tracks and turns toward Jon. "You're friends with the farmer?"

"No. I'm friends with the wolf."

"You're friends with a wolf?" Geralt asks, incredulous. How the man can keep insisting he's not a warg is beyond him.

"Well, you're friends with a horse."

Roach whinnies in agreement.

"Fair enough."

It doesn't take long for the pair to realize that something is drastically wrong with the farm. For starters, there are no people. Olde Peter, if he even exists, is nowhere to be found. The farmer's cabin is empty, with turned over tables and chairs collecting dust and spider's webs. There is rotted food on the kitchen table, broken dinner plates, and spilled milk, long since curdled into chunks of cheese. An awful smell of sulfur radiates throughout the cabin.

Jon retches. He holds his cloak tightly over his nose and steps further into the house. It's been so long since he'd last seen his wolf, his best friend, his _Ghost._ Before the Night's Watch, before he left his home in Winterfell when Ghost was just a cub and he was just a boy, they would never leave each other's sides. They were inseparable from the day he first found him, suckling at the side of his dead dire wolf-mother.

Ghost was the runt of the litter then, an albino. The odd one out, just as Jon has always been.

It was hard to part ways with his wolf. He left him to the wilds of the North when he first set off to find the Witcher. He didn't trust his fellow watchman to care for Ghost in his absence, especially after he had left his post and fallen in love with Ygritte, toeing the line between desertion and duty. He trusted in Ghosts' ability to fend for himself in his absence, but he didn't know how much he would miss the constant presence of his wolf at his side.

Now, with word of a white wolf on the lips of the townspeople, he is more than anxious to find him.

He steps into the hallway, following after Geralt as he heads for the bedroom. The smell of sulfur grows stronger with each step that they take. Geralt steps into the bedroom and promptly freezes. Jon smacks into the sturdy brick wall of his back with a grunt. He steps to the side of Geralt and stills.

There, in the middle of the ransacked bedroom, lies the body of Olde Peter, torn to shreds, covered in old, blackened and drying blood.

The sight is just as horrendous as the smell. Bile creeps up his throat and Jon swallows it back down with a grimace.

"Does your wolf have a habit of attacking people?"

"This isn't him. He wouldn't do that."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Jon snaps. "This was probably the work of burglars-"

"Since when are burglars capable of biting legs clean off?" Geralt asks, stepping forward to better inspect the body. He's riddled with bite wounds and puncture marks, indicating fangs the size of a dagger's blade. Geralt quirks an eyebrow at Jon. "It's the work of a wolf, Jon. Even you can't deny that."

"It's not the work of _my_ wolf."

"Perhaps it isn't. Perhaps it is."

Geralt stands and cracks his neck from side to side. It's getting late, the yellow sun has begun to set, coloring the sky a dark orange and purple. There's little time of daylight left, but that's all the time Geralt needs to start tracking the wolf. He makes his way past Jon and out of the farmer's cabin.

"Where are you going?" 

Geralt mounts Roach and the pair head past the pasture and towards the tree line. 

"To find a wolf."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild wolf appears! *Cue Pokemon battle music*

"Your wolf is nearby," Geralt grunts, dismounting from Roach. 

They have been trudging through the woods for hours now, following Ghosts' paw prints and the trail of white fur and scent markings. Olde Peter's farm is far behind them. The sun has since set, coloring the sky a deep purple.

Geralt lets out a whistle and Roach responds with a whinny, before trodding off back the way they've come. 

"Where have you sent her?" Jon asks, cutting through the bramble and thorns with the back of his blade. 

"To the outer tree line," Geralt remarks. "I don't want Roach to meet the same fate as olde man Peter." 

"I've already told you, that wasn't Ghosts' doing."

"So you've said. But a wolf is a wolf, no matter how tame it may seem."

Geralt ducks beneath a tree branch, following after Jon's hurried gait. In the light of the moon, the paw prints seem larger than any wolf he has ever seen before. Larger than the paws of your average direwolf.

"There's a reason the townsfolk are offering gold for your wolfs' hide," Geralt murmurs.

His hand brushes against the deep gouge marks in the tree trunk nearest him.

_Claws the size of daggers._

Jon is just about to argue when he hears it, the howling of a wolf, _his_ wolf. 

"That's him. Geralt, that's Ghost!" Excitement sparks inside of him, the urge to howl is deep in the back of his throat.

Geralt ignores Jon in favor of frowning at the tree bark. He places his palm flat against the torn flesh of it. Five gouge marks for five fingers. 

_Claws the size of daggers._

There is something very wrong here.

"Jon-" Geralt calls, but the watchman is already gone, running after the sound of his wolf and deeper into the thicket. 

The moon's face is full. It shines down from high above them.

"Shit," he grunts. 

* * *

Jon can hear Geralt shouting after him, but the sound of his wolf leads him astray, like a siren singing in the night.

“Ghost!” he calls, jumping over overgrown branches and stones. “Ghost?”

He can hear him howling, he can feel the underbrush shake from the weight of Ghosts' paws beating hard against the ground. His heart is pumping fast against the inside of his chest. 

"Ghost!?"

His wolf suddenly comes barreling out from the underbrush, tackling him to the ground. Jon laughs even as the wind gets knocked out of him, even while Ghost snarls and paws at his clothes before baring his teeth in a terrifyingly large and wolfish display.

“Oh Ghost, I’ve missed you!” 

The wolf licks him across the face and Jon laughs even harder, feeling freer than he has in a long time. He scratches at his direwolf’s ears, petting his face free from dirt and debris. He lets his head rest against Ghost's snout and presses a kiss against his soft wet nose.

"It's been too long, my friend. Far too long." 

The last time they saw each other was when they parted ways at the North Wall, just after everything had gone to shit with Ygritte, her people, and his fellow watchmen. Ghost flattens his ears and whines as if somehow sensing the somber change in Jon's thoughts. 

"Hey now, it's alright." Jon coos, ruffling the large wolf's fur. "I'm here." 

Geralt comes dashing in with his sword held at the ready and his eyes wild. “Jon!"

“It’s okay! I'm okay!” he laughs from beneath his wooly beast. They must make an interesting sight. 

“Geralt, meet Ghost, one of my oldest fr-”

The sound of a howl rings out, it's so loud that it shakes the trees and the very ground that Jon lays on. There is something _wrong_ about that howl. It sounds more like the screech of a human being, distorted into the high pitched whine of a wolf. Jon shivers as the howl's vibration runs through him. Ghost is off of him in an instant, his face snarling and growling at the shadows of the forest.

Jon jumps to his feet and pulls his sword out, surveying the forest around them.

"What was that?" 

Ghost snaps his jaws to the right of him, and Jon turns his attention from Geralt, to the figure emerging from the shadows.

_Glowing eyes, claws the size of daggers. A beastly creature the size of a horse._

The thing is _awful_ to look at. A true beast from the storybooks Jon's nanny used to read to him. A half-man, half-beast. Cursed for all eternity. Jon takes a step back as the figure steps forward. Larger than Ghost, larger than a horse, pale white and hairless skin stretched tightly over the bones of a wolf. A human face with dangling jaws, teeth too big for its mouth to close and eyes glowing as pale as the moon.

The beast, the thing, it _snarls_ like an animal at them. Ghost snarls back.

* * *

" _That_ is the wolf we've been looking for," Geralt answers right as the thing lunges over them.

Jon ducks down while Geralt brings his sword up, knicking the beast's underbelly with the tip of his blade.

Ghost snarls and jumps after it, clawing at its twisted flesh and biting at its neck.

The beast lets out a sickening howl of pain. It twists its paw into an odd angle and Jon can hear the bones snap as it re-forms its paw into a spindly and twisted human hand.

The beast grabs onto the scruff of Ghosts' neck and tosses him like a sack of potatoes. Ghost collides hard with a tree, snapping it clean in half.

"Ghost!"

He tries to run after him but Geralt grabs him by the collar of his cloak and pulls him back at the exact moment the beast swipes its claws at him.

"Your wolf will be fine, worry about-" the beast lunges at Geralt but he is quick to tuck and roll away. "-Yourself!"

Jon jumps back as the beast turns to him, he brings his sword down in an arc right as it swipes its paw out, severing the beast's hand from its wrist.

It releases a foul odor, like the stench they encountered at the farmer's cabin.

The beast screams at him, mouth opening wide like a viper. Blood drips from the wound and sizzles like acid where it touches the ground. 

Ghost rises and shakes his fur before bounding to his side and snarling at the creature. Jon mimics the same snarl of his wolf, perhaps unknowingly. He growls at the creature, staring it down, waiting for the strike to come.

But all the creature does is scream and curl in on itself, its bones snap and realign in an agonizing display. Jon holds his sword over it, readying for the killing blow.

"Wait," Geralt calls. "The sun is almost up."

"What's that got to do with-"

The creature moans and writhes on the ground. The sky turns the palest shade of orange and before Jon's very eyes, the beast he was fighting turns into the form of a girl.

Jon takes a step back from the slumped over body of the girl. He sheaths his sword and leans shakily against Ghost.

"Is there ever going to be a normal day with you, Geralt?"

"I could ask you the same thing."


	7. Chapter 7

The girl's name is Aoife, and she has been a werewolf since the day she was born.  
  
"My father lost a gamble to a witch," she says, turning over logs on the forest floor. "When it came time to pay his debt, he ran, leaving my pregnant mother behind to pay it for him."  
  
She moves a few rocks to the side, foliage and bramble as well, before finally finding her previously hidden stash of clothes.

"She made her own bets with the witch, and that is how I came to be."

She dresses quickly, and hands Jon's cloak back to him.

"I'm sorry about your..." he motions awkwardly to the stump of her ~~paw~~ hand.

"Don't worry about it. Given the fact the both a Witcher _and_ a Black Cloak were hunting me, I'd say that I'm lucky to have survived at all." 

"We weren't hunting you," Jon says quickly.  
  
"We were looking for his wolf," Geralt adds, motioning towards the pale beast beside Jon. 

Ghost continues to snarl at Aoife, snout scrunched up in anger. Jon pets Ghost, willing him to relax.

"What were you doing out here on a full moon?" Geralt asks. 

"I have a deal with the farm owner. Each full moon, I am able to eat from his farm in return for labor during the earliest weeks of the month."  
  
"Then why kill him?"  
  
Aoife stares at her feet, scuffed and bloodied from walking barefoot on the forest floor.  
  
"I didn't mean to. I came over like always, but he refused to offer me access to his livestock. Said something about me eating my fill already. Must've been your wolf, I reckon," she sighs, motioning towards Ghost.

Jon has to hold him back from lunging at her. Aoife takes a few steps away from them, Ghost loosens his stance a bit, but maintains his snarl.

"Is that a direwolf?"  
  
"Aye."  
  
"How rare." Something mysterious flashes in her eyes but it is quickly gone. She smiles at the pair. "Would you care to join me at my cabin? It's not too far from here."

Geralt glances at Jon, he sends him a questioning look.

"I think, a moments rest would be nice," Jon answers. "It shouldn't set us too far behind on schedule."

"Fine," Geralt sighs. "To the cabin it is."

* * *

They find the cabin ten miles North and far deeper into the woods than expected.

Despite the harsh elements of the forest, it is surprisingly picturesque and well kept.

Geralt ties Roach to a post just outside of it. He brushes her hair, pets her flanks and whispers encouragement into her ears. Jon smiles softly at the pair. It inspires him to scratch Ghost behind the ear in his favorite spot, the one that causes his leg to kick with pleasure.

Aoife smiles at them, Ghost immediately tenses and lets out a low growl.

"I don't think he likes me," she says, gathering firewood to bring inside the house.

"I think he's confused is all. One moment we were fighting each other and the next, we're setting up camp in a cabin together."

Aoife smiles, she hands Jon her stack of firewood. "Maybe that's it, then."

They filter into the house one by one. Aoife holds a hand out, stopping Jon in his tracks.

"I think your wolf would enjoy being outside, don't you?"

Ghost snarls at her, Jon pats his head, attempting to relax him. "It's okay boy, she's a friend."

"Maybe he could sleep in a corner of the house? Or-"  
  
"It's my cabin, Jon. Don't forget that." She snaps, surprisingly cold. She smiles softly at Jon, masking her hardened look. "Besides, he can keep watch over Geralt's horse."  
  
Ghost continues to snarl, his fur stands on end. He's never seen Ghost act like this before, not since they were North of Night's Watch and-  
  
"Maybe you could send him to hunt us some deer? It could help him to get his nerves out with the bonus of finding us a meal."

Aoife puts her hand on Jon's shoulder, the only one she has left. A pang of guilt hits him then. It _is_ her cabin after all, and Ghost is behaving less than civil.

"Alright." Jon kneels before Ghost, petting him on the snout.

"Go and find us some deer, yeah?"

Ghost licks Jon's face. After a moment of much deliberation he turns and sprints into the woods. 

* * *

The fire is alive and thriving. Jon relishes in its warmth.

It is not yet cold enough for snow but sooner, rather than later, it will be. Originally, Jon was hoping to reach the North Wall with Geralt before winter reached its peak, but their countless side-errands have done little to aid in his efforts. As a consequence, Jon suspects that winter and ice will be upon them before they can even make it to the wall.

"I don't have much, but perhaps a little bit of mead for everyone? It helps to warm the body, after all."  
  
Aoife struggles to bring mugs and a pitcher to his and Geralt's place by the fire. Jon jumps to help her, carrying the bulk of it.

"I'm sorry about your hand. Truly, I am."  
  
"Don't worry about it. If I was in your position, I would've done the same thing."

Geralt grunts, though Jon is not sure if that means he is agreeing with Aoife or not. He pulls his sword out, the blade shines silver.

Aoife flinches back from it, spilling her mead.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I just needed to sharpen it," Geralt says, brandishing a whetstone to sharpen the blade.

"Don't apologize. I'm just jumpy still...Have you killed a lot of monsters with that?" Aoife asks, sipping from her mug.

"Too many to count."

"Do tell."  
  
"Campfire stories?" Geralt scoffs. "That's childish."  
  
"Please?"  
  
"I would bore you."  
  
"Well, what about you, Jon? Ever kill a monster with that sword of yours? Valyrian, right?"

"Yes, Valyrian. The only monster I've killed with it was recently, a kikimore with Geralt."  
  
"You didn't actually kill it," Geralt scoffs. "I did all the work."

"You would've died if it weren't for me-"  
  
"You just got in the way."

They fall into a retelling of that day with a few minor changes, leaving out Jon's black-out and the Kikimore beast letting him go from its clutches. They move on from there and quickly into a series of stories from Geralt's many adventures. Beasts like Aoife, monsters from land and sea and witches. Geralt has seen them all.

It makes Jon realize how little he knows about the world and how little he has experienced compared to Geralt. The Witcher has lived a thousand times in a single lifetime than than Jon ever has or ever will.

Aoife is leaning against Jon while she listens intently to Geralt's story.

When he finishes his tale, Aoife claps and Jon quickly joins in.

"Now, tell me a story about your lovers. There are many of them, I'm sure."

Jon tenses at the exact moment Geralt does.

"Did I overstep?" Aoife asks, cautiously glancing between the two.  
  
"No." Geralt grunts, not bothering to explain any further.

"Well, what about you, Jon. With a pretty face like yours, I'm willing to bet that you're popular with the opposite sex."  
  
The fire is dancing in the middle of the cabin, bright red and yellow flames with floating embers that reach up to lick the ceiling.

It's been so long since Jon has spoken about Ygritte. The wound her death left behind is still fresh, it makes his heart hurt. It fills his dreams with fire, blood, and ice.

Somewhere outside Ghost is howling. His voice cries out and carries on the wind.

”Ah, I see. You’ve had your heart broken.”

Jon abruptly stands, ignoring Aoife's questioning look.   
  
"I think I should go help Ghost. He's been out for a quite a bit." Jon wraps his cloak around his shoulders. "Are you coming, Geralt?"  
  
The Witcher ignores him, focusing instead on the sword at hand. 

"Fine. I'll be back within the hour."

"Wait! I'll come along," Aoife scurries after him.   
  
Jon sighs as he steps into the cool night air. Roach whinnies at him, he smiles back at the horse and walks deeper with Aoife into the woods.

* * *

”Ah, I see. You’ve had your heart broken.”

Jon’s face is shadowed by the flickering light of the fireside. He tries to keep a cool facade but his emotions are written there. His face is too open, too honest. Geralt wonders if he knows how easily his emotions betray him.

“Both of you have,” Aoife continues. She taps the side of her head with a well-manicured claw. “A woman can always tell.”

Once upon a time, Geralt was born with an honest face, like Jon’s. But becoming a Witcher changes you, it rewrites the structure of your very being, it forces you to become strong or die trying. Once upon a time, Geralt had a mother and he had a heart and for a small amount of time, he had Renfri, too.

But he had killed her with the very sword that he is sharpening. The silver blade reflects his face at him and Geralt quickly turns it away.

“I have no heart,” he grunts, running the whetstone across the edge of the blade. Jon shifts uncomfortably in the firelight, somewhere outside, his wolf is howling.

“Everyone has a heart, Geralt.”

“Witcher’s don’t.”

“That may be, but I reckon a Witcher has a wound leftover. A soft spot where their hearts used to be.”

She reaches over and places a hand on his leather-clad knee in comfort. He withdraws his leg and looks everywhere but her. 

Aoife sighs and leans in closer, she whispers in his ear and for a moment he hears Renfri’s voice, like a whisper on the wind.

_The girl in the woods, she is your destiny._

“I can smell your wound, Geralt. I can smell the place where your heart used to be. There is so much blood and sadness. Tell me, does it ache, Geralt?"

Her eyes reflect the firelight. She leans in closer, her breath fans his face. It is rancid in scent, like Olde Peter's bloodied farmhouse and the smell of rotting flesh.

"I can smell your pain, Geralt, and it smells _delicious."_

He tries to push her away but his hands and arms are frozen. 

“What are you?” he snarls.

“A servant, a spy, a conspirator.” She throws her head back and laughs. Her teeth elongate into fangs. The bones of her face twitch and shift beneath her skin. She steps away from him as her face shifts and contorts into unnatural poses. Pupils turn into slits and she hisses at him like a snake. Her lips elongate into the bastardizations of a snout and she barks like a dog before throwing her head back to howl.

"Some call me the first god or the first shifter. Some call me warg. But now, they call me _monster."_

Jon Snow's seat by the fire is empty. The entire cabin seems darker now, colder too. Geralt's breath comes out as frost. No warmth can be felt from the fire pit. It twitches and dances with mock heat. The shadows twist and bend in the firelight before turning into silhouettes of people running along the cabin's walls. 

His arms remain heavy at his side.

“Who sent you?”

Aoife disappears into the shadows of the cabin, twisting and twirling with the silhouettes as they combine to form the outline of a wolf with eyes glowing as pale as the full moon. 

"The Night King has his eye on you, Geralt the brokenhearted."

The light from the fire is snuffed out, drenching the cabin in total darkness.

* * *

He is looking for Ghost with Aoife, trudging through the overgrown underbrush and over roots so thick that they split the ground open. The cabin where Geralt has decided to stay in is far behind them, a mere speck in the distance.

A part of him wishes that Geralt had come along in search of Ghost as Aoife makes him uncomfortable. Something about her just seems _wrong._ He can't wrap his head around what it is exactly that's putting him on edge. He knows it is not her fault that she was cursed to be a werewolf, but he can't stop himself from shivering whenever she calls his name. 

"Jon, you and your wolf seem close."

Vines hang down like serpents all around them, jagged boulders stick out from the ground like teeth.

"Aye, I've had him since he was a pup."

Jon can't help but feel as if he is somehow walking deep into the belly of a beast.

"Direwolves are rare nowadays, you are lucky to have such a beast at hand."

"We're good friends."

Ghost is calling out for him faintly, howling far off in the distance. He wants to howl back. He wants to call Ghost to him as a fellow wolf would, but he swallows it down, burying the feeling and ignoring the way Aoife keeps close behind him but just out of sight in the shadows.

"That's not what I meant," she laughs. "A Direwolf companion means you have a beast by your side to help you hunt, to keep you warm at night, and _yes_ , to keep you company..." She walks in front of Jon, stepping lightly on her feet. "But a direwolf companion means _more_ than all of that."

"I don't understand-"

"Of course you don't. You know nothing." Her tone of voice sounds oddly like Ygritte's. It shocks Jon enough that it sends him tumbling over a tree root, landing hard onto his hands and knees.

Aoife laughs in a hoarse tone of voice _exactly_ as Ygritte used to sound.

"A direwolf means that when you die, you can keep on living through its body. You can take his life for your own."

She kneels before him, a cruel smile playing its way across her face.

"Now, doesn't that sound like a nice life fit for an all-powerful warg? Hmm?"

When Jon looks to her, for a moment, he sees Ygritte's red hair but it is gone in the blink of an eye. He scrambles to his feet before pulling his sword free and aiming it at the hollow of her neck.

"Who are you?" 

"Never mind that," she chuckles. "You've got larger matters to attend to." Her eyes glow white, her body goes still.

The foliage behind her begins to rumble and shake. Something is coming his way, something powerful and large.

* * *

He has just enough time to duck down as a mass of white jumps out at him.

The beast snarls and growls. Jon pales. He recognizes the sound.   
  
"Ghost?"

Ghost turns to him, eyes pale white, mouth foaming with venomous hatred.

Jon lowers his sword slightly. "Ghost? It's me. It's Jon."

Ghost's snarls in response. His hackles raise as he readies himself to lunge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the chapter came across as okay? I realize it may be a bit confusing during the cabin scene but basically Aoife is two places at once, hence why Geralt and Jon are experiencing different things while undergoing the same conversation in the same cabin setting.
> 
> Also! Sorry for another late update!(The world is going crazy ya'll and I hope that everyone is okay and safe and that maybe this fic can gives you a bit of escapism or sense of fun during these troubled times!) 
> 
> Also, I'll try my best to post every other Sunday from here on out.


	8. Chapter 8

They’ve fought before, Jon and Ghost.

Play fights mostly, and a few training sessions here and there. Jon’s seen his wolf take down five of his fellow watchmen all at once. He's seen him battle giants before and ice men. Ghost has always been remarkable like that. Loyal, fierce, and strong, but most importantly, Ghost is family. Perhaps the only family that Jon has left. 

Never in a million years did he think that he would be on the receiving end of his bite.

* * *

Geralt shivers awake in the middle of Aoife's cabin.

He finds the fireplace cold to the touch. Nearly every surface of the cabin is covered in layers of dust and cobwebs. The warm environment is long gone, snuffed out like smoke. Geralt begins to wonder if it ever existed in the first place.

His sword, thankfully, is still in its scabbard attached to his back. He can hear Roach whinnying anxiously outside, pawing at the walls of the cabin with her hooves.

Somewhere outside, he hears a wolf snarling.

Somewhere outside, he hears Jon, too.

* * *

Jon jerks back at the exact moment Ghost snaps his jaws shut. Had he been half a second slower, his skull would have been crushed like a melon.

Ghost lunges for him and Jon does his best to side-step the attack but it’s useless, there’s no escaping his wolf, he’s trained him too well. 

“Ghost! It’s me, it’s Jon!” Heedless of his words, Ghost lunges at him, effectively knocking him flat onto his back.

He’s snarling. Thick globs of spit land against Jon’s face. There is just enough time for him to draw his sword and shove it between them before Ghost bites down hard against the Valyrian steel. His eyes are white and cold, full of hatred and so unlike the wolf he’s known and raised. His flesh pimples when he realizes that the wolf above him is no longer his, but Aoife’s.

Ghost is snapping against the blade, heedless of the way its edge cuts into the gum lining of his jaws. Jon flinches at the sight of it. He can’t keep holding his sword up for long, sooner or later Jon will have to seriously cut his wolf, or die trying. 

Ghost rears his head back, dislodging Jon’s sword. Jon kicks his way out from under him, flailing to the side and stumbling upright. He holds his sword out in front of him while Ghost licks at his wounded jaws and circles him like prey. 

It would be easy for Jon to bring his sword up and slice his face in two, but he can’t bring himself to do it. There is only one way that Jon can get out of this without hurting himself _or_ Ghost...he’s just not exactly sure _how._

Before he can contemplate it much further, Ghost growls something deep and guttural before he lunges at Jon and _bites._

Blood, sulfur, and more blood, that is all that he is able to process.

That, and the sound of howling, echoing through his mind.

* * *

When Geralt finds him, Aoife is long gone. The black cloak looks incredibly small beneath the towering figure of his wolf. For a moment, he thinks the man is dead. For a moment, he feels as if he were back in Blaviken, standing over massacred bodies, triumphant in a way that he wishes to never be again.

The wolf turns his bloodied face towards him, his snout drips with blood. _Jon's_ blood.

As he reaches for his sword, he thinks he hears Renfri's voice but she sounds incredibly far away, a mere whisper at the edges of the wind.

Ghost flattens his ears as Geralt approaches, snarling at him as though defending the body of Jon Snow. Geralt snarls back, he raises his sword, ready to slay the wolf where he stands when a weak moan of pain escapes from Jon.

Geralt lets his sword drop heavy between them. Ghost licks at his bloodied jowls, blinking at Geralt with eyes that are no longer white or red, but a deep amber brown.

* * *

All Jon knows is pain, spreading from his left shoulder and down to the edge of his fingertips. He feels incredibly fevered. The cool wind whipping at his skin does little to settle him. The ground beneath him feels unbalanced and jerky, it causes his shoulder to ache all the more.

"Go to sleep," a familiar voice grunts.

It is a deep voice, and a rough one. It reminds Jon of the few battle-hardened knights that he had met growing up in the shadow of his siblings at their home in Winterfell. 

"Go to sleep, or I'll knock you out myself."

Ah, Jon remembers who he is now, the Witcher.

The ground beneath him is still unbalanced but less so. It's turned into more of a stable trot now, rather than a chaotic boat ride from hell. Jon thinks for a moment that he's on the back of Roach but the Witcher would never allow it. Not in a million years.

His eyes are growing heavy and Geralt does not need to threaten him for a second time before they are already falling shut and he is whisked away into slumber.

* * *

Jon dreams of Ygritte, and then his father, who was beheaded by the queen of the seven kingdoms. He does not know where his father's body lays but he knows that it is in pieces, strewn about in a foreign kingdom, lost somewhere in the southern lands. 

He dreams then, of his sisters and brothers, wherever they may be. He dreams of their family home in Winterfell, the weepy castle of snow and winter.

He dreams of wolves, howling and waiting for him but he is lost to them in the shadows. 

* * *

When next he wakes, he spies the first signs of winter as snowflakes falling on the ground. Geralt is seated beside him, tending to a fire. Jon is glad to feel warmth of it.

He shudders in memory of Aoife and in memory of fighting Ghost.

Jon bolts upright into a seated position and immediately regrets it. Pain flares throughout his left side. A grunt of pain escapes him. Geralt puts a hand on his shoulder, the uninjured one, and shoves him back down against the makeshift bed of leaves.

"You're injured, stop straining yourself."  
  
"I feel like a bite has been taken out of me."

"That's because it has," Geralt snaps. "Your wolf would've done a lot more damage too, had you-"  
  
"Ghost? Where is he?" Jon tries to sit up once more and is immediately met with Geralt's glare. "Is he okay?"  
  
"Of course he's okay, he's fucking direwolf!" 

"Then where-"  
  
"Hunting, on the outskirts of camp." 

"Oh." Jon lets his head rest against his cloak, bundled up into a makeshift pillow beneath his head. "Where are we?"  
  
"Someplace safe."  
  
"How long have I been out?"  
  
"Four days."  
  
"Four days!? Gods, we'll never get to the North Wall in time."

"Relax, we're nearly there."  
  
"H-how?"  
  
"Funnily enough, all one has to do is head North in order to reach the North Wall. Who would've thought?" Geralt replies sarcastically. He tosses a few twigs and leaves into the fire, it burns them up quick, turning them into ash. "That, and I bought a map a few towns over. Found a few shortcuts, made a few lefts and rights, now here we are."

"And where is here? Exactly?"

"Few miles out from some place called Winterfell."  
  
"Winterfell?!"  
  
"Looks like noble lands, we'll probably have to pay our way through it...Do you know it?"  
  
Dread fills Jon's stomach with butterflies of anxiety. It's been so long since he's been there. Too long. Would anyone remember him? Would he be welcomed back? Was he even missed?

"It's...I was raised there as a member of the house Stark."  
  
"Hmph."  
  
"That's all you have to say?"  
  
"I care for no titles," Geralt says with a shrug, just as the forest parts for Ghost's emerging figure.   
  


A few rabbits hang from his jowls, upon seeing Jon, Ghost lets them drop to the forest floor before bounding over to him. The large wolf rests his heavy head against Jon's.

"Ghost!" Jon hugs him to his chest, ignoring the way his shoulder twinges in pain. He is overjoyed to see his wolf's eyes, no longer white with Aoife's rage, but the natural red of his colorless iris, calm and welcoming, the eyes of an old friend.

"I'm glad you are alright my friend."  
  
Ghost licks a stripe across his face, in agreement.

In a just a days time, they will be back in Winterfell together. Jon's not sure if he's ready to go back just yet, but at least he'll have Ghost right beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll I went back to work today and I broke a glass jar!! It shattered everywhere!!! The embarrassment is killing meeee this is like the third time I've broken something too but writing this chapter is sort of helping me to forget but AHHHHH! (that's me internally screaming.)
> 
> Anyways! I hope you enjoy it! We're getting back on track in terms of plot and I predict that the next chapter will be the last at least for this part of the fic and then I'll start the second part (I've decided to split the story into two for a series because it's getting kind of longer than anticipated! Can you believe I originally planned for this fic to only be three chapters in length??)


End file.
